A peal rings out from the church bells. Their song is echoed by a ghostly refrain, perfectly matched. The half-muffled bells call to each other as if from two sides of a valley, a yawning chasm or from green hills far away.
It is Remembrance Sunday, the day when we remember those who gave their lives for their country in times of conflict.
In The Enchanted Village, it has been grey all day before darkness descends.
In our ancient church, the elders line up in dark coats, with poppies on lapels, and prepare themselves for this sombre ceremony. They sing hymns of remembrance, reflect in silent prayers and listen as the names of village men from two world wars are read out, chanted like a litany of lost souls.
Up in the bellringing chamber, a bugle player waits, patiently, for his moment. For The Last Post and Reveille.
On my wall, a picture of my ANZAC grandfather and his best friend, both in uniform and smiling at the camera as they pose in the photographer's studio just before setting off for Gallipoli and France. The best friend lies in a French cemetery, his name one of thousands on the war memorial in Canberra. In Mr Grigg's family, his mother's brother lost forever to the German battleship The Scharnhorst.
The bugle player steps up to the rail, the congregation turning as his notes reverberate around the cold, stone walls.
Come to the cookhouse door, boys, come to the cookhouse door. Wherever you are.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
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